Paper Boats
by SparkleHorse
Summary: Rated M for sex, drugs, and mature conversations.  Some may think it's OOC for Carly.


It's a hot day in October, and I'm driving that long stretch of highway back into Seattle, through the woods, and it is the Indian Summer - even with my windows down and the sun dazzling on the asphalt and the sweat beading on my upper lip, there are dead leaves spinning across the air, winking like brown and red stars going out.

It's a Saturday early in my senior year, and I don't know what to do with the feelings that possess me these days. Certain songs make moments seem to last forever. I stay up all night, all the time, now; even when I'm staying at Carly's and she's fallen asleep I'll sit in the window perch and watch the moonlight on her pale forehead, watch the cars moving in the streets far below, watch the lights of the city fade out as the sun rises.

I don't know what my future will be after next year, so I drive, because driving this long, sunny highway is like hypnosis, and Nada Surf is blasting out of my speakers, and it seems like only the music and the wind and the constant speed will give me the answers.

I want so much out of life - I want every moment to be awesome and magical.

My phone rings. Carly. I turn the radio down.

"What's up, Carly girl?"

"Hey, are you on the way back?" she asks.

"Driving down the highway right now."

"Awesome!"

"The awesomest," I reply quietly. Again she is acting as if there is no covert aspect to our lives. "Am I still picking you up?"

"Oh, yeah, no change in plans," she says. "But could you do me a favor?"

"Anything for you, Cupcake."

And from the slight pause I can tell she's smiling on the other end of the phone. "Will you stop at the place where you get the Smirnoff Ice and pick up a pack? I'll pay you back."

"Yeah, sure, if that guy's there hanging out, I'll get him to get some."

She thanks me, says 'bye,' and I clamp my phone shut and wonder how she can keep doing this. She knows what the alcohol and weed will lead to, because it's happened a half-dozen times now. She's blatantly planning for it tonight, but I've resolved not to let it happen again, not until she can acknowledge our past encounters; not until she can talk about it.

A tuft of dead leaves is bunched in the crack where the hood of my truck meets the windshield. I turn on my wipers to dislodge them. In a cloud they flutter off to land on the highway behind me.

* * *

It started back in the summer, one steamy, humid night after we'd rehearsed iCarly and after Freddy went home. I was staying the night at Carly's. I'd painted her fingernails black while she sat quietly, then went to the bathroom. After I used the bathroom, I walked back to her bedroom and found her sitting on the ice cream sandwich loveseat, drumming her black fingernails on pale knees, looking down at the carpet.

"What's wrong?" I asked, sitting on the sofa across from her.

"Nothing," she replied, but bit her lower lip. I sat silently for a moment.

"Are you _sure_ nothing's wrong?" I asked again.

"Yeah." She looked up and tried to smile, but it was that half-smile that scrunches her face up and makes her look Asian.

"But you're sad about something?"

"Yeah."

I waited for her to elaborate. "_So_... tell me what!"

"I don't know," she said, shaking her head. She looked away. "I can't tell you." A sigh escaped her. "I can't tell you."

I didn't press the issue. We watched TV in her room, waited for Spencer to fall asleep downstairs, then leaned out her window and hit a bowl, letting the smoke drift off into the sticky night air. Of course we pigged out on FatCakes, laughed uncontrollably at stupid stuff on TV, and generally acted like obnoxious, stoned 17 year old girls, but at least Carly seemed to be out of her funky mood.

Later, deep in the night, as the high faded into a pleasant relaxation, we laid in her bed, drowsy, listening to the air conditioner hum in the darkness. I thought she was already asleep until I felt her fingers twirling knots in my hair.

"What were you sad about earlier?" I asked.

She sighed. "You know how we're not supposed to keep secrets from each other anymore?"

"Mm hmm."

"Well... I gave Freddy a hand job."

It was like being stabbed in the heart. Pain lanced throughout my body; a pit opened in my stomach. "When?" I managed to breathe.

"After he saved me from the taco truck," she murmured, rolling onto her side to face me. "I thought I was in love with him then, and his mom left us alone for, like, 36 minutes."

"How was it?" I asked, not really wanting to know.

"Eh."

"Is he big?"

"Average, I guess."

"Is he cut?"

She snickered in my ear. I could smell the toothpaste on her breath. "Of course he is. You know what a hygiene freak his mom is."

"Uncut doesn't mean unhygienic," I protested.

"Ha. Sam, how would you know?"

I shrugged. "I've done things with guys."

"Oh my god, Sam! What?"

"Just, you know... By hand, is all."

"And you've had experience with both kinds of wieners?"

I tried not to giggle at her use of 'wieners' as she inched her body closer to me. "Yeah."

What was her hand doing on my thigh? Oh, god, the weed is fucking with my head, I thought.

"Is it a lot different if the guy is uncut?"

"As long as he keeps it clean, it's no big deal," I said. Yes, her hand was definitely moving over my hip. "It's actually a lot easier to give a guy a hand job if he's -"

I gasped, cutting myself off in mid-sentence, because her hand slipped under the waistband of my shorts. "Uncircumcised," I finished.

"Why?" she drawled, lifting her head up over me now, grazing her fingers along my entrance.

"The skin moves a lot more," I said.

"Like this?" she asked as her fingertips found my clit and rubbed it through its hood. I could only moan in reply. There was no more talk of penises while she rubbed circles over my button, her ring finger arching down to work me into slickness. Her breath bloomed in little bursts over my face and neck, smelling of mint and of spice.

She pulled me onto my side to face her. I worked my own arm under hers, slipped my hand down her pants, found her already wet. Of course Carly's lips were perfect and tidy, paper thin membranes that barely protruded. I pressed my thumb into her clit, eliciting a long, deep gasp from her. I eased my finger into her, turning the long gasp into a series of short grunts.

Just a few minutes earlier I had been nearly devastated by her confession. It's amazing how quickly the pain goes away when the person you love the most is moaning into your shoulder as you both shudder and cum against each other.

* * *

I'm sitting in the parking lot, squinting against the glare of sunlight off the white gravel. The hobo who hangs out in the park across the street is inside the store, getting Carly's Smirnoff Ice and some rolling papers. He never minds buying us kids alcohol as long as we give him some money to buy a little beer for himself. I'm waiting, sweating in the heat, sitting with my truck door open, talking on my Pear Phone to my lesbian cousin down in Texas.

"So she still doesn't talk about it?" my cousin asks.

"She never talks about our... you know, our encounters," I say. "She always gets up the next morning like nothing happened, and she never talks about it. It's only when we're drunk or stoned that she does anything."

I hear my cousin sighing. "That's not okay."

"I don't know why it's so hard for her," I say.

"Have you ever tried to bring it up?"

"I sort of brought it up last night, but it was clear she didn't want to discuss it."

"Damn. That's not okay." That's her personal catchphrase.

I sigh, slap the sweat on my forehead, and lean back in my seat. "We're supposed to live in this big, liberal city, blah blah blah, where it's supposed to be so easy to be gay; and look at this situation. How the hell can you do it down in Texas?"

She scoffs. Even in the filtered frequencies I can hear the mixture of humor and disdain. "I don't know why everyone thinks Texas if full of homophobic cowboys who gay-bash everyone. It's really not that big of a deal here. Even the rednecks don't care. I'm friends with all kinds of crazy rednecks, and they all know I'm gay, and none of them care. They all still drink beer with me on Saturday night. And if anyone _does_ care, the most they're gonna do is pray for your soul. I promise, it's no big deal here."

"And finding other girls... isn't difficult?"

"Nah, even in these little towns out here, there's plenty of gay stuff going on," she laughs. "We're everywhere, cuz!"

That gets a chuckle out of me. I kick at a loose rock.

"Besides, I don't think it matters where you're at," she continues. "Everyone is different. It sounds like your friend Carly just has some kind of issue with it. And look, I'm 24 years old, and one thing I've learned from this life is that love ain't perfect. People will hurt you even when they don't mean to. It's not malicious on their part, but they'll hurt you because of their own insecurities. But you know what? It doesn't mean they don't love you."

"Yeah," I say softly. I sweep a stray hair out of my mouth. I can see Ol' Jim, the hobo, inside the store, checking out with my stuff.

"If it don't work out," my cousin says, "you can move down here after you graduate. I'll help you figure out the whole 'being gay' thing."

Ol' Jim is coming out of the store. "But I'm not gay," I say. "I just love Carly."

* * *

The second time happened the weekend before school started. Carly was staying at my house that night. We sat in the dark in my room, watching Gregg Araki movies.

"We are creatures of media," I said when _Nowhere_ was over. I stood up and popped the dvd out of the player.

"What?" Carly asked. She was sprawled out in my beanbag, not at all prim or lady-like, wearing a tight red baby doll shirt I loved seeing her in. Her bare legs, ghostly, ran from her short skirt to her ankle socks.

"I wish real life was like that," I tried to explain.

"Stoned, horny teenagers and shoegazer music all the time?" she said, smiling.

"Just... that colorful. You know?" I didn't know how to explain it. I still don't.

She peered at me like she was trying to figure out who I was. "You think your mom would let you pinch some of her weed?"

"Yeah."

"Go ask her."

"Are you sure?"

She snorted. "Of course I'm sure," she said, a little too forcefully, like it was silly to imply anything might happen.

Carly had the blacklight on when I returned from my mom's room with a fat roach on a clip. And you know, after we smoked I was so high I don't remember how we ended up on my bed. I don't remember how or when she climbed on top of me, how her panties ended up on the floor. But I do remember how dry my mouth was, and how spicy and smoky hers was as it latched onto mine before moving down my neck and collarbone. I remember how much darker she seemed under the blacklight, like she'd been deeply tanned. I remember how every little particle of fuzz glowed neon on her skin.

* * *

I'm driving back into Seattle, totally underage, with alcohol and weed, and I know this has to stop. I used to not care at all about going to juvie, but now the thought of losing my freedom and being locked up in that ugly place... well, it scares me. It scares me more than anything; the ugliness of that place, especially, more than the 'losing my freedom' part.

Tonight will be my last party. I even told Carly that last night.

It's late in the afternoon as I drive down I-5 through Shoreline and into downtown. The sun is low in the sky, and so warm and gauzy. It seems to be ducking behind the tall buildings, sending out its diffuse golden light from behind their cover. I get off at the exit, and drive now through this familiar neighborhood. The street is lined with video stores, gas stations, pizza places, our favorite yogurt restaurant, all lighting up neon now against the approach of dusk. This city is vibrant, and alive; and the people seem so un-selfconscious, so unaware of how beautiful they are as they go about their business.

Carly is still in the shower when I get to her apartment, so I spend a few minutes watching Spencer work on a light bulb sculpture. Small talk. No, I tell him, I still don't know if I'll try to get into college next year.

Carly finally comes downstairs, dressed in a black blouse, bell bottom jeans, black and white chucks.

"Hey," she says. "Did you bring a jacket?"

I shake my head. "Why?"

"A cold front is supposed to roll in tonight," she says, running fingers through still-damp hair. "I'll get you one of mine." She goes back upstairs, comes down a minute later with this dark blue baja jacket she knows I like.

"Thanks," I say as she hands it to me.

She just smiles, and I know this is love, even if it's not perfect.

* * *

There was the weekend after school started when we were walking home drunk after a party, and Carly dragged me into a dark alley, pinned me to the rough brick wall, and slid her hand down my shorts, her fingers into me. I muffled my cries into her shoulder while cars passed out on the street only yards away.

There was the hot, humid afternoon when we went to my house after school and found a note from my mom telling us she'd be gone overnight. We smoked some of her weed in the bathroom with the vent on, then ended up shirtless on my bed, bringing each other off again and again until we left huge sweat stains on my sheets.

There was the Wednesday night after we'd finished our school projects and sneaked up to the roof of Bushwell to share a bowl. Under the wind and the stars we rolled around on the concrete until our knees and elbows were skint, our shirts ripped, our bodies were exhausted.

There was that time at the park, and that time in the back of Rip-Off Rodney's Ford Bronco after we got drunk at his house, and that time on Carly's couch watching late night horror movies while Spencer slept in the other room.

And in between all that there was just school, doing iCarly, and pretending nothing was different.

* * *

I drive us over the bridge to Mercer Island. Those expensive houses along the shore are already lit up, casting long fingers of wavering light upon the water.

"How come Wendy gets to come to our school if she lives out here?" Carly asks.

"Her mom is a secretary for the school board, or something," I tell her.

"Oh. So it's all going to be people from over here? A bunch of rich kids?"

"It's not all rich people over here. I thought you'd been to Wendy's house before? It's one of the poorer neighborhoods." I shrug. "Still better than where I live, I guess."

"My house?" She sticks her tongue out at me, then smiles.

I smile back, drive. There _are_ a lot of rich people on the island, though, and nice neighborhoods with million-dollar houses; and tree-lined, storybook streets. I drive carefully, because the cops here are looking for anyone who seems out of place. I'm worried my beat up old truck will draw their attention.

But the land levels out as you go south; it turns sparser, with fewer trees, and soon we're driving into the working class neighborhoods full of single-story homes.

Wendy's house is on a corner, but it is secluded, with a wooded lot between her and the nearest neighbor, and an empty field across the street. It's the perfect place to throw a party. I park along the curb.

"What is it?" Carly asks. She's sitting quietly in her seat and I realize I haven't said anything for a while.

I shake my head. "Do you remember that Volkswagen commercial they used to show when we were little? The one with the Nick Drake song?"

She thinks about it for a minute. "Yeah, those kids drive off at the end."

There are already a dozen cars parked in Wendy's driveway, and people are sitting on the hoods, hanging out in the pale light of the front porch, standing in circles in the yard.

"I was thinking about that commercial," I say.

She punches me lightly on the shoulder. "Not tonight, Sammy. Come on, you said you'd do one more party before you gave up drinking and smoking and blah blah blah."

"Blah."

She laughs. "Come on, then."

* * *

Last night, after the show, she walked me to our 'halfway point.' Even though we both own vehicles and drivers licences now, it's one of the rituals of our friendship that we've preserved. She always walks with me to the street lamp at the corner of Main and Nelson that marks the exact halfway spot between my house and hers. From there I walk on alone, while she turns and goes back to Bushwell. I don't know how many nights we've stood under the street lamp and talked for hours before finally separating and going home.

Last night was warm but windy. We stood under the light, snared by dead leaves that skittered down the sidewalk. For a long time neither of us spoke. Carly stood around with her hands in her pockets while I watched the skyline. I love this city. I love seeing the lights on in the upper reaches of the tallest buildings, and beyond them, the mountains outlined against the darkness.

"I'm going to quit," I said.

"Hmm?" Some note of alarm hummed in her voice. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and peered at me.

"Drinking, and smoking and all that," I explained.

She rolled her eyes. "Are you going to be all straight edge now?"

"I just want to be clear headed." And here I looked right at her, locked my eyes onto her dark eyes. "Anything I do drunk or stoned, I should be able to enjoy sober. You know?"

She shoved her fists back into her pockets and looked away, and I knew then that she is not free. She's so beautiful outside, but she's not free inside, and I don't know what to say to her to make her free. I don't know how to put what I feel into words.

I thought of how it feels to drive home at sunset with a good song on the radio, and how that song can make the moment seem infinite. I looked up at the lights shining in the sky, the lights of this city, the stars, and I knew that it doesn't matter what everyone else thinks - nothing matters but how the lights make you feel. If only I could take what I feel in those moments, and what the city lights make me feel, and transmit those feelings directly into Carly's head, then I might be able to free her. I sure don't know how to put it all into words to explain.

Could I tell her that some nights I rolled over and cried into my pillow because I was overwhelmed by the beauty of everything?

"Are you going to skip the party tomorrow, then?" she finally asked.

"Nah, I'll go. One last party."

"One last time?"

I shrugged. "I just want to be able to do the same things sober that -"

"I heard you," she said, cutting me off.

I looked back at her. "Do you think you could do that? Because I'm not going to keep doing it this way. Not again. It has to be all or nothing."

She wouldn't look at me. "I don't know, Sam."

I took a deep breath. "I need something more from you."

Her dark eyes flashed, met mine. "I'll see you tomorrow," she said, turning, walking off into the night.

* * *

It's late now, and I don't even care that I'm laying on the floor. I'm buzzing so hard that even this hardwood floor is comfortable. We're in the dark in the guest bedroom upstairs, and Carly is laying on her side next to me with her jacket rolled into a pillow. Some girl I don't even know is passed out in the bed, snoring. I'm just floating in a dark, quiet sea of pleasant feelings, because I made my last time to party count. We played quarters earlier with a bottle of Schnapps, and I hit the gravity bong in the kitchen sink I don't know how many times.

I can hear the wind howling outside, because that cold front rolled in a few hours ago while we stood on the porch, turning the wind raw and fierce. But I am wrapped up in Carly's baja jacket, and I am warm. Everything is warm, and fuzzy. Most everyone left earlier, or passed out, or retired in pairs to different rooms to be alone. It's quiet downstairs, but I can hear the low thump of some bass-heavy rap song on the stereo system.

I float for a while. I am sure that Carly is passed out until I sense her hand feeling its way across the darkness. It's cold on my tummy at first, but quickly warms; and I want to stop her, I swear. I promised I wouldn't let this happen again, but for a girl who can't even talk openly about this thing, she has some kind of power over me.

"Shh," she is saying, her alcohol breath warm against my cheek. Suddenly her thumb is rubbing circles on my clit, and all thoughts - of making us work, or about the future, or of how this is all going to end up - fly out the window as waves of pleasure course through my body.

I don't know what will happen with us. Is she the weak one, or am I?

Whatever. This is love, even if it isn't perfect.


End file.
